


where the black angel did weep

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Series: missing scenes (civil war) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940's flashbacks, Bucky Barnes Has Cats, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Depersonalization, Gen, Heavy Angst, I blame google for any translation issues, Internal Conflict, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Stucky - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, author does not speak russian or romanian, bucky's mental health, romania - Freeform, this some dark shit right here, well ONE he has one cat, what happened before civil war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7908418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Tuesday and yet the calendar reads Saturday. He has lost four days.<br/>Outside, the rain reminds him that this too will pass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where the black angel did weep

**Author's Note:**

> what had he to lose  
> not a ghost bloodied country  
> all covered with sleep  
> where the black angel did weep  
> not an old city street in the east  
> gone to choose  
> and wandering's brother  
> walked on through the night  
> with his hair in his face
> 
> inspired by this gif set http://givemebackmybucky.tumblr.com/post/149665719672

There is always a before.

 

[an up close look at Bucky's mental health]

 **tw:** **mentions of suicidal thoughts**

 

Tuesday.

It's drizzling outside and the rain is cleansing. Indoors, Bucky closes his eyes and breathes in deep, he visualizes droplets sliding down his nose and dripping from his chin. It sticks to his neck and clings to his hair. He tries very hard to anchor himself to the earth but the rain turns to thunder. Lightning paints his cheekbones and in his inner world with eyes shut, he cannot breathe. Rain turns to blood and it's under his fingernails, sticking to his leather jacket and that's not how this works. It cannot be real and yet it collects in puddles under his boots. The air around him grows thick and he's falling to the ground with heaving breaths. 

Rain.

It's only rain.

Rain.

Focus, hear it.

New York, black and white. Thin body soaking wet and coughing, arm around the blur's shoulders as he drags them through hospital doors.

"Rogers, Steve."

The figure rattles off rapid fire details that Bucky cannot understand. Steve Rogers. His shoulders are hunched and he needs dry clothes - why are they moving so slowly? He collapses on the floor and-

Something outside of the ramshackle apartment Bucky calls home makes a scratching noise and it shakes him out of his own head. He's never been more grateful for the stray cat he feeds than he is right now. He doesn't want to remember. God he needs sleep. Its been 36hrs and he should be getting better by now but it's like he's stuck in molasses. Every step forward pulls him back.

"Sladkiy," he whispers as he checks the perimeter then cracks the door open for the cat to enter.

_Sweet one._

"Hungry?"

The cat purrs and rubs along his leg. She is not the world, she is quiet and peaceful. She has never met the Winter soldier - she only knows him as the man who feeds her scraps and frees her when shes had enough. She comes and goes as she pleases and Bucky takes comfort in knowing she'll always return. He can give her this - he has the power to relentlessly hold her captive and love her even as she struggles but that is not who he is. He is not the monster Hydra created and freedom is not a gift to be taken away.

He tears up slices of meat and places them beside of a chipped bowl of water. Tuesday, he thinks.

And yet the calendar reads Saturday. He has lost four days. Outside, the rain reminds him that this too will pass.

+

 

"De-le cafeaua."

_Sir, your coffee._

His skin feels prickly and hot. Thick layers of shirts grow damp and the woman behind Bucky growls "Ce mai astepti? Merge!"

_What are you waiting for? Go!_

His pulse begins to race and he can't breathe. Every face in the crowded Romanian market glares and it feels like all eyes are on him. Breathing feels more like dying and he feels sick.

"De-le? Esti bine?"

_Sir? Are you well?_

Weakness will get him killed. If the man notes the panic building in his body, he will take him to the hospital and they'll strap him down and-

"Bine, bine," he chokes out and takes off in a run, leaving the coffee and line of customers behind.

_Fine, fine._

Breathe, remember how to breathe. In, out. Slowly.

He slips into an alley where the sun cannot reach. The cool ground rises up to meet him as he slides to the ground, back against the wall and face in his hands. Before Hydra, he never had panic attacks. The streets of New York were his home and alleyways were reserved for rescue. Bile fills his throat and he heaves until they turn into heavy sobs. An elderly woman passes by then doubles back.

"Copil dulce, vino. Te ajut eu."

_Sweet child, come. I'll help you._

He wills his voice to work, speak. Send her away. What comes out instead, in a small voice is "Te rog, acasă." 

_Please, home._

Her weathered face melts into a kind smile as she shuffles over to take his hand. Even in this fragile state he is careful to keep the left one at his side. He allows her to help him up and he stands on shaking legs.

"în cazul în care este acasă?," she asks.

_Where is home?_

His mind scrambles for an answer - Brooklyn. Russia. Hidră. Rogers. Romania, _Sladkiy_. New York. Siberia. Rogers. Fuzzy, the answers are blurred.  


"Aici, aici," he murmurs. 

_ Here, here.  _

Romania. Does she understand?  


She pats his hand in the way that concerned grandmothers do when the young need comfort but cannot or will not ask for it. 

"Eu te duc la mine acasă. O să-ţi fac un sandwich."

_ I'll take you to my house. I'll make you a sandwich. _

Food. He'd eaten three plums for breakfast, washed down with instant coffee and a slice of toast. Or was that yesterday? 

He'd ventured out in search of pantry staples and a decent cup of coffee and ended up having a panic attack in line. The cabinets would be bare. He didn't know this stranger but she seemed friendly enough and as his heart-rate began to even out, he felt exhausted and weak. Drained. He couldn't afford to hunker in another alley - too risky.  


He nodded.

 

The walls in her home were lined with photographs of smiling faces and her refrigerator was dotted with children's drawings. This was not a house, it was a home. 

"Nepoții mei," she said as she layered spiced beef brisket on toasted bread. 

_ My grandchildren.  _

"Acestea arata fericit," he murmured then turned away. 

_ They look happy. _

His apartment walls were bare save for peeling wallpaper but he had one photo at least. He'd kept a brochure with Steve's face on it safely tucked away. If Hydra were to hunt him down here they would not find ammo to use against him. He'd kept the journal that hid the brochure either under the floorboards or atop the refrigerator. In it, Steve's smile was forced and he wore his Captain America suit but he was Bucky's focal point on the bad days.  


She plated the sandwich and placed it in front of him next to a glass of water, hands clasped and smile bright.

"Ele sunt foarte puternice, în special în Alin. El este de patru." 

_ They are very loud, Alin especially. He is four.  _

Bucky nodded and eyed the sandwich. It smelled delicious and the bread soaked up juices that made his mouth water.  


"Mânca, copil," she said with hand gesturing toward the plate.

_ Eat, child.  _

He did as he was told (it bothered him how naturally obeying orders came) as she began to talk about Alin - how he'd mail her hand drawn pictures as often as possible. Her son had followed a job opportunity to the UK and she only saw them on major holidays. She spoke of great grandchildren, her sons and daughters, how crowded the small home would get when they'd return home all at once.  


Pausing, she questioned "Ai familie?"

_ Do you have family? _

Bucky swallowed the last bite of food and felt a knot form in his gut. He couldn't exactly confess: _I have someone but he does not have me._  


"Instrainat."

_ Estranged. _

Her eyes seemed to soften as if it hurt to think of a life without loved ones and how empty it would feel. 

"Sunt Adela," she gestured toward herself. "Ati putea vizita oricând."  


_ My name is Adela. You can visit any time.  _

He would like that, very much.  


"Bucky, vă, mulțumesc."

He hadn't shared his name with anyone here, never had a need to. It felt foreign on his tongue.

_ Bucky, thank you. _

She spoke and he listened. When it was time to go she'd written her number and address on a slip of paper. It joined the brochure in Bucky's journal.  


+

 

Hands maneuvered a disposable razor over stubble - down, down, down. They paved pathways on lathered shaving cream and tired blue eyes watched through a dirty mirror. His movements were mechanical, rehearsed. He placed the razor on the bathroom sink and traced a finger through the foamy mixture. It skimmed over cheekbones and traced the curve of his chin.

The mirror reflected every movement and it felt as though he were watching a short film through someone else' eyes. Those hands belonged to him, the metal one had taken lives and carefully checked plums for ripeness. The long fingers with neat square nails had gripped a journal and filled its pages. They'd opened cans of soup and stroked the cats fur. They'd reached out for Steve in every nightmare.

And yet.

He stepped back and wiped his face clean with an old shirt. He'd managed to reduce the mess to a scarce layer of stubble. Good enough.

My body. Feel its muscles, the gleaming metal.

My hands. They're rough and callused.

My apartment. One bed, a half empty cup of coffee, newspaper on the door.

I belong here, they belong to me.

He retrieved his journal and carefully opened it to the parts that made him smile. He'd written these words, hadn't he? When? That was his handwriting, he must've.

_July 3, 1938._

_Celebrated Steve's birthday early as he was sick. Polio? No fireworks. Held his hand, fed him soup. Comic books, we shared a bed. He snores._

He'd lived that life.

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, he reminded himself.

 **Yours**.

_August 1934??? Becca is a thief. Stole Steve's sketches - my face, the neighbors dog, his mother, me asleep on couch cushions?? He turned red, said they were for his studies. Spent $2 on him at Coney Island._

Becca's brother.

_Ma, look! Bucky's got an admirer!_

That's you.

_You're my friend._

His.

_Bucky?_

Not James.

_Soldat._

Not Hydra's soldier.

_Sgt Barnes._

Theirs. 107th.

_Bucky Barnes._

Me.

Like a feather slowly floating toward the Earth, he gradually began to come back. The clock read 8:46pm. He'd lost four hours.

 

+

For someone who was a virtual ghost, he thought about death an awful lot. In one dream Hydra had pinned him to the wall with magnetic cuffs. They'd burned marks into his skin and taunted. They'd removed him long enough to submerge his head in water until he passed out then the cycle began again. He'd died only to be resurrected when he'd rather stay gone. 

In another he'd laughed at Steve as they pushed and shoved one another on the streets of New York. They were tipsy on cheap beer and Steve's hand kept finding Bucky's. Just as they were safe inside the walls of their apartment, it happened. The floor had opened up and sent him careening toward the Earth while Steve cried.

The waking hours were the worst. On the days where the cabinet was stocked, the cat had wandered away and he couldn't bring himself to dial up Adela, he sat in silence. How would he do it? What would kill God's own abomination?

Alcohol wouldn't work. He could get drunk but never enough to clock in as alcohol poisoning.

A gunshot wound wouldn't do - his body would heal within hours. Headshot would work - too messy. The landlord would be angry.

Knife to the heart? Why waste a perfectly good weapon?

Drowning? Steve had survived underwater for over 70 years. Useless method.

Surrender to the authorities and let them gun him down? Would eliminate the mess in his apartment but Steve. Steve would find out. He'd rage.

_STEVE._

Bucky thought of his face and how easily he'd cracked. He thought about the bruises and stooping to check for life - water on parted lips. And the museum that told the world just how close they'd once been. He thought about Adela and her stories, how she'd make him the same sandwich every Wednesday and he'd listen. He thought about how she'd wait for him and set out two plates for lunch. And how Steve would take the news. Suddenly none of the answers seemed right. His life may feel more like death but they couldn't take it from him.

He slipped on a jacket and cap then headed in the direction of Adela's home. It was a Tuesday, she'd be packing away fresh fruits and veggies from the market. Every Tuesday she'd purchase a basket of plums and a carton of strawberries for Bucky, a bushel of bananas for herself.

+

 

They weren't always bad. Sometimes he slept in because dreams mixed with memories and in them, he was smiling. Hundreds of birthdays, holidays, fireworks, hotdogs at Coney Island, dance halls, Steve's feet on his toes as Bucky taught him to dance, winning stuffed animals for dates, staying up late with Steve and talking about the trouble they'd gotten into as kids, watching Becca's eyes light up as she opened handmade gifts from Bucky on her birthday, stargazing on fire escapes, eating his grandmothers homemade blueberry pie, the excitement on his mothers face when he brought home a loaf of sliced bread.

After a particularly splendid dream he stretched and stared up at those same stars.

We're under the same sky, he thought.

Maybe Steve was doing the same.

We can't be together but I can dream of you. I can touch you, we can pretend.

The moon peeked out from dark clouds and hope bloomed in his chest. A man can fool himself if he tries hard enough and Bucky has years of practice archived. He imagined Steve sweeping into the room and pleading with him to escape. He'd gather a bug-out bag and they'd make a run for it. They'd live outside of the history books, they'd build makeshift homes on street corners if need be, they'd be the happiest goddamn fugitives with newspaper blankets and one anothers' warm body for pillows.

And he wouldn't be afraid, no sir.

Even the worlds most jaded realist could be a dreamer.

Sladkiy slinked over in a rare nightly visit and curled up on his lap. He was going to be okay. Maybe not today or tomorrow but someday.

**Author's Note:**

> a peek inside of Bucky's head because his facial expressions and microexpressions really give him away without saying a word. I have a lot of mental health issues myself and recognized them in him. 
> 
> you can't have your brain manipulated and come out without issues, you just can't. he has trauma that goes back decades and trauma has a way of hiding itself then showing up when you're not prepared. you're never prepared for that. anyways he's exhausted and has a lot of demons. he's worse off than steve in many ways. honestly, cryo is a godsend for him but, as you can tell, he wants to stay with steve. 
> 
> I apologize for the sadness dump in this but it needed to happen. also I tried to tag everything but it's possible I missed things and I'm so sorry if I triggered anyone. that wasn't my intent. I didn't want to tag it as graphic violence b/c there really isn't any. I purposely didn't describe how he was tortured but that aspect is present in his dreams. 
> 
> I don't think this will get many kudos but if you read it, thank you thank you thank you.
> 
> title is from "the black angels death song" by the velvet underground


End file.
